


Shakespeare is My Second Language

by hauntedlittledoll



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Batman: Streets of Gotham, Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Shakespeare is My Second Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3425252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/pseuds/hauntedlittledoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damian-centric drabbles inspired by lines of Shakespeare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If There be Devils

"You made a deal."

"Several actually," Damian murmured, easing the thread in and out as he had been taught.  "My soul for immortality, obviously."

"Obviously," she echoed.

"My ability to love for the ability to regenerate," Damian continued calmly.  It was a small sacrifice; who did he still have to love?

They were the only ones left, but they had never been close.

"And the name my mother gave me …"

She opened her mouth to retort, so sure that she knew everything, knew this secret too … _and maybe she had_ … but it’s gone now and she closes her mouth with the audible clack of teeth.

Damian doesn’t remember the syllables anymore either.

"… for the name of my brother’s killer."

"Gotham killed him," Barbara Gordon—Commissioner Barbara Gordon—issued curtly.  She had never been one to succumb to temptation.  "Gotham killed all of them."

Damian hummed an agreement, but he was absorbed in making tiny perfect stitches until the redhead ripped the material out of his hands.

"This—" she snapped, displaying his work.  It didn’t deserve her disgust.  His stitches were perfectly even.  The cowl was nearly finished, but the lenses had not yet been fitted and the holes gaped menacingly.  "This is what got them killed.  The Bat."

She threw it on the fire as if she couldn’t bear to touch it any longer.

Damian let it burn.

He could make another.  He had all the time in the world.

He even said as much.

"And what will you do?" the former-Oracle challenged him.  "When you have vengeance?  What then?  What will you do for all eternity when there is _nothing_ and _no one_ left, Damian?!”

"I protect the people of my city."

"You can’t do it your way.  We tried that.  We all tried that, and it _failed_ , Damian.”

"So did the law," Damian pointed out, automatically blocking the backhanded blow.  They had lost everything to Gotham … everything but the Joker.

Barbara didn’t try to hit him again, although he reckoned the woman could have managed it if she truly wanted to.  Instead, she dropped her hands to her lap and closed her eyes.

"Gotham is _hell_.”

He smiled at that, a pale ghost of a thing that is still razor sharp.  “She is.  We’ll burn together.”

The redhead grabs the front of his sweater, yanking him to the edge of the couch and practically into her lap.  “If you put on that costume, Damian Wayne, you will die.  I guarantee death will find you no matter what deals you’ve struck.  It always finds you.”

"It didn’t find you."

"Who says it didn’t?" she asked softly.  Damian didn’t like the tone of voice.  He was used to her wit and the command of a general.  She had no right to sound so tired, so frail, so … _mortal_.

"And what will you do, Commissioner?" he demanded.  "If the apocalypse does not come, what will you do?"

"The apocalypse never comes," she told him, "We just keep going … deeper and deeper … it doesn’t matter.  I’ll do what I’ve sworn to do."

There is no sound save the crackling of the fire.

"If you put on a mask, I will hunt you."

* * *

 

_"If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn in everlasting fire, So I might have your company in hell But to torment you with my bitter tongue"_

_Titus Andronicus 5.1.147-150_


	2. Speak Again

Damian moved to rejoin his mentor as soon as the man caught up.  Grayson leaned in and murmured something in his ear, but Damian couldn’t make it out.

Not that it mattered; Damian just shook his head.

His mother was saying something now, but Grayson was not listening.  Grayson was not even pretending to listen, because the man was proceeding at a brisk pace back the way they came, and Damian went where he was directed, because he knew his mentor and Grayson would carry Damian if it meant reaching their destination faster.

Damian hated that, but Grayson occasionally insisted upon pulling the senior partner card and making decisions that Damian did not like.

It wasn’t like Grayson, however, to cut short an opportunity to trade poisoned barbs with Damian’s mother.  They hated each other, and Damian had never understood why.

He still didn’t understand, but Grayson was guiding him back to the jet at a pace that said the man was not to be trifled with.  The silence too, had an ominous feel that Damian was reluctant to break.

He missed the first rung of the ladder, and Grayson’s hold on his shoulders tightened.

Damian immediately willed himself too heavy to lift.  Too dense for even the Batman to bear.  Too stiff to grip comfortably.  Too cold to touch.

The man’s hands withdrew and for a split second, he thought that Grayson would take the hint and let him be.

Foolish, really … Grayson wouldn’t recognize a hint if it danced before him in a red-haired wig.

Damian felt the weight of the Batman’s cape settle over his shoulders.  He turned when prompted, and startled when he came face-to-face with Grayson’s unnervingly bright blue gaze.

The man had unmasked himself in the middle of enemy territory.

"Hey, look at me," Grayson cajoled, capturing Damian’s chin in his free hand.  "It doesn’t matter.  Whatever she said, it’s not true.  It’s not …"

 _"Nothing will come of nothing,"_ Damian quoted suddenly.  It had the benefit of silencing his mentor.  Grayson’s blank expression made the man look like an idiot.  Damian laughed miserably.  _“Speak again.”_

The blank countenance gave way to an unhealthy red-ish purple hue of rage.  “She disowned you?!” Grayson snarled, regaining his feet.

Damian flinched.

He had not thought the man would recognize the line, and he was not entirely comfortable with his mentor’s hair-trigger temper.

Grayson went around perfectly jolly except for when he was moping over incomprehensible details … unless someone made the normally-charming man very, _very_ angry.

"My fault," Damian muttered, squirming out of the man’s grip.  "My choice."

His mother had offered him the choice.  Again and again, she offered him the choice, and Damian hadn’t chosen her.

He couldn’t exactly blame his mother for starting over when she had nothing left.

"You’re not nothing," his mentor insisted, shaking him hard.  "Damian …" Grayson gave up on shaking sense into him then, and hauled Damian close as if he could _squeeze it_ into the ten year old.  “Damian, you’re _everything_.”

* * *

  _"Nothing will come of nothing: speak again."_

"King Lear" 1.1.90


	3. That Merry Wanderer of the Night

Her words seemed to echo off the buildings and down the street as Steph let her momentum do the work.  Just ahead of her, Damian almost fumbled the landing, and Steph glided smoothly through the air to land lightly at his side.

"Did you just …" the younger boy trailed off uncertainly.

Stephanie tried not to smile.  “Maybe.  Maybe not.”

Damian stared at her suspiciously.  “You don’t know what it’s from,” he challenged softly.

Steph raised an eyebrow in return:  “I _can_ read, you know.”

Damian turned away and fired his grapple.  Steph followed his lead and it was another three blocks before Damian hesitated between swings.

"Why?"

"I’m not completely uncultured," Steph informed him archly.

"No," Damian muttered, retreating into the depths of his over-sized hood.  "But _why?”_

"Because you like Shakespeare," she shrugged, "and I may not be an expert like Hood or A.  I wasn’t raised on the performances like the others … but I _have_ read some and I _will_ read more and I’ll _catch up_.  It’s worth it, Boy Wonder, to see you smile.”

"I’m not smiling," he denied immediately.

"Sure looks like a smile …"

* * *

 

_"I am that merry wanderer of the night!"_

"A Midsummer Night's Dream" 2.1.43


	4. This Above All

It was a well-made device.  Small, unobtrusive, and far-too-readily located.

"It’s a false clue," Damian admitted at last, crushing the bug in his palm.

Amid the general outcry around him, Damian passed the damaged microchips to an insistent Superboy.  “How do you know?” the older hero demanded.

"Because the Demon’s Head likes to play games, and if Red Robin won’t play, Ra’s al Ghul could very well settle for making us the game," Damian snapped in return.

"So we play the game," Wonder Girl suggested.  "We win.  Will he give us back Red Robin then?"

"You can’t win against the Demon’s Head," Damian announced in exasperation.  "He has all the pieces, and you don’t even know the _rules_.”

"But you do," Raven allowed softly.

Damian swallowed.  “I know most of the rules.  I don’t play by them anymore.”

He had made a promise.

"If we play the game, we lose," he finally continued, crossing his arms thoughtfully.

"We don’t lose," Superboy immediately countered.  "Not when it counts.  The Titans always find a way."

"We don’t win if someone has to die for it," Damian shot back.  "The only way to beat the Demon’s Head is to change the rules.  He doesn’t like that."  Damian grinned a little:  "He never sees it coming."

"How do you know all of this?" Kid Flash wondered aloud.

Damian didn’t have to tell them.  Grayson said he never had to tell anyone anything about his mother’s side of the family unless Damian wanted to.

In the last few months, Damian hadn’t wanted to discuss his al Ghul lineage at all, but the Titans would not be satisfied with half-truths.

"Ra’s al Ghul is my grandfather," Damian said at last.  "So make up your mind.  You can come with me or you can stay here, but I’m going to take the fight to him."

He suited action to word, but didn’t dare look back to see if the Titans would follow him.

He could, if necessary, rescue Drake singlehandedly.

It still meant something when the speedster was already waiting for him by the time he reached the ship. 

It meant something that Wonder Girl was right behind him, directing the others to their seats as they began running through flight protocols.

It meant something when the Super representative sank into the seat beside him, murmuring his agreement for Damian’s ears alone:

"Let’s go find Tim."

* * *

 

_"This above all - to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as night follows day, thou canst not then be false to any man."_

"Hamlet" 1.3.78-80


	5. *exit pursued by a bear*

"My hands are clean," Damian immediately informed his father.

Metaphorically speaking--the crime scene was so viciously awash in blood that neither Robin nor the police officers working it could avoid the crimson stain entirely.

His father hummed a noncommittal acknowledgement under his breath, and Damian swallowed further defenses.

Fortunately, Bullock drew the older hero away with a brief summary of the victim’s many crimes and mysteriously bloody end.  “Bear” was apparently Gotham PD’s best theory.

Damian left them to it; Father would be able to tell as Damian had that these wounds were made by a creature with much smaller claws.

So he took advantage of the opportunity to investigate the dumpster at the far end of the alley and the glittering malevolent eyes beneath it.  The red glow would be completely invisible to anyone over four feet in height, and Damian narrowly dodged an attack on his own person.

The bloody bile appeared to be mildly acidic; Damian discarded his gloves hastily.

He suspected forensic testing would prove that most of the blood at the crime scene did not belong to the victim and was potentially alien in origin.  Damian was not entirely certain how a Red Lantern’s powers worked or whether alien species existed that were approximately the size and shape of a common housecat on Earth.

“ _Good_ kitty,” Damian murmured, extending his bare hand this time.  The cat appeared confused by either the endearment or the sacrificial offering of flesh, and hesitated.  Damian held his hand very still.

He was eventually rewarded with a damp nose and the brush of fur.  “Good kitty,” he coaxed, and the animal emerged hesitantly.  Damian ran his hand down its head and neck, but avoided the tail and the ring located there.  “I can’t take that off you,” Damian murmured, regretfully.  “It’s not safe.  But you’re a good kitty, yes, you are.”

From here, Damian could see the dead man’s victim, shivering under a borrowed coat as she gave her statement.

"Batman wouldn’t understand," Damian murmured to the feline.  "So you should go before he sees you.  Go home, kitty.  Go home … Dexter," he murmured, catching the glint of polished metal under the cat’s throat.

With a soft hiss that was probably as congenial as a creature of rage was capable, the cat disagreed, butting his head against Damian’s ankle as if sensing a kindred spirit.

"I can’t come with you," Damian sighed regretfully.  "Not right now.  I made a promise."

* * *

 

_*exit pursued by a bear*_

"The Winter's Tale"


	6. Or Else My Heart Concealing It Will Break

In retrospect, the attempt at running away was laughably below Damian’s usual standards.

Having been run in merry circles by the ten year old’s usual schemes _before_ , Bruce honestly expected to find his son traveling first class to some distant locale or gone to ground in one of Gotham’s nicest penthouse suites.

He wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to find Damian marking some obscure anniversary with Talia at the type of restaurant that not even Brucie Wayne could afford or creating havoc for Tim and his friends from within the very walls of Titan Tower …

… or possibly lurking in the Fortress of Solitude if Damian called in enough favors.

His son had options.  Resources.  Even allies.

Certainly, with a legion of vehicles—both civilian and bat-issue—at Damian’s disposal, Bruce never thought that his son would leave the grounds on foot.

He certainly hadn’t thought to check the closest bus station.

So it was Dick who found the boy, but that was to be expected.

Dick always knew what to say and when to push and where to look.

Bruce simply watched from a safe distance as his eldest handled his youngest.

He was doing it now, having tracked the GPS in Dick’s cell phone to the bus station.  Bruce didn’t even have to go inside; there was a big picture window that afforded him a perfect view of his sons sitting side by side in cheap plastic seating.

Bruce didn’t know why he had come as his presence was clearly superfluous.

Dick would talk Damian into coming home eventually or perhaps take the boy back to his apartment for whatever cooling down period Damian needed to come to terms with the latest injustice in his life.

Bruce couldn’t begin to imagine what had set the boy off; he hadn’t had the time to even _talk_ with Damian this week, let alone argue over anything of importance.

Perhaps there had been a fight with Tim, he decided.  Or a lecture from Alfred.

Bruce had run away more than once as an inconvenienced eight year old although he never made it past the front gate.

Damian was smarter than Bruce had been.  Precociously clever in fact … with resources that his father could scarcely imagine at that age.

Bruce sighed.

It all came back to his intelligent, well-trained son—with all the resources of Bat and Man and even Demon at his disposal—walking several miles to take a public bus to who-knows-where.

Such a mystery was beyond even the World’s Greatest Detective.

"It’s not a mystery," Dick told him later.

It was much later, after the boys had returned from a long motorcycle ride and an illicit pizza run to find Bruce absorbed in casework …  and after Damian’s knapsack had been emptied of nonsensical items that only a child would consider necessary (and a few not-so-childish considerations) … and even after they had suited up for patrol with Damian reluctantly convinced to take the night off after his busy day.

"It’s not a mystery," Dick told him _then_ and _only then_.

"Obviously not to you," Bruce groused.  His tone was more petulant than it should have been, and Bruce strove to master it.  He failed.  "You found him in under twenty minutes."

Dick stared at him hard, and the younger man’s disapproval was obvious even under the domino mask.  “Yeah,” he said at last.  “I found him … but I’m not the one he wanted to look.”

* * *

 

_"My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break."_

"Taming of the Shrew" 4.3.77-78


	7. All the World's a Stage

"I thought you didn’t do tights, Demon Spawn," Jason teased, automatically backtracking in order to fully appreciate the situation at hand.

It was definitely worth the delay.  Christmas was here, the rogues had retired, and his birthday had come early.

Damian crossed his arms and looked away, obviously preferring to sulk into the three way mirror than provide anything like willing cooperation.  “I suspect foul play.”

"Stomach flu," Alfred corrected absently as he stitched.  "Master Colin’s acting debut has been unfortunately delayed due to … projectile vomiting, I believe."

Jason snorted.  “So the kid’s standing in for opening night?”

"I helped Wilkes with his lines," Damian grumbled, "and _this_ is my reward.”

'This' happened to be a fetching pair of tights, tunic, and a short cape in an array of purples that would put BG to shame.

Alfred made a tsking noise under his breath.  “I sincerely doubt the lad became ill just to inconvenience you, Master Damian.”

"He could have been poisoned," Damian argued.  "No one gives their entire cast dairy right before a performance; the director is obviously unhinged."

"Then perhaps Robin should take advantage of his position to investigate the matter more thoroughly," the butler suggested, prodding his charge until Damian obediently turned around.

Jason grinned.  “I bet you could fit half your utility belt in those sleeves, Bitty Bird.”

"Kindly do not give him ideas," Alfred requested, gathering the material in question with a critical eye.

"Aww, c’mon, Al.  What are big brothers for?"

* * *

 

_"All the world's a stage . . ."_

"As You Like It" 2.7.139


	8. It is the Cause

She could only love her child in the early hours just before dawn.

There was simply too much to do during the day—too many errands to run, too many enemies to dispatch, and too many secrets to keep in order to bring about the future … _Damian’s future._

And far too much needed to be accomplished at night—the right clues needed to be left, the trails could never be allowed to grow cold, and the Bat must have his little mysteries laid before him … one poetic piece at a time.

Talia al Ghul was a working mother in _every_ sense of the phrase.

In those earliest hours, however, she was not a prominent contender for world domination and her loved ones were not the heroic figures of legend, but sleeping men and children.

Before the sun rose, Talia could spend a few precious moments at her son’s bedside, carding a hand through his dark hair and pressing feather light kisses to perfect eyelashes.

Damian was such a beautiful boy, made in the very image of his father by Talia’s science.

When he had been very young, Talia had sung lullabies in the privacy of their quarters but only the quietest of things to soothe his troubled sleep after a bad training session.  Now, she dared not risk a single note despite the injuries Damian sustained at the hands of a man … of that man … of a  _nobody_ …

No, Talia dared not comfort her son aloud, because the complex layers of her Beloved’s security system could distinguish between heart beats if triggered

She can’t risk it.

Damian had never known of Talia’s pre-dawn rituals, and he couldn’t find out now—not when Leviathan was growing steadily under her hand and the future shone bright as agent after agent of the Bat fell …

Damian was only a child; he didn’t understand why his mother must be so strict.  He saw the bounty on his head as a cage, but didn’t the child put his beloved dog on a leash to keep the beast safe at his side?

It was Talia’s job to protect her son, to discipline him, and to open every closed door between the boy and his future.

Damian _was_ the future.  He was her cause, her purpose, her greatest treasure, and … and … she could not speak of it.

"Soon, darling," she breathed without sound, her lips soft against Damian’s cheek.  "Soon."

* * *

 

_"It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul. Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars! It is the cause."_

"Othello" 5.2.1-3a


	9. For Within the Hollow Crown

Ra’s al Ghul had lived upon this plane for almost seven hundred years.  He had accumulated wealth and power that no mortal could imagine.  Wars were waged at his whim, maps were redrawn, and his name has been long forgotten.

He will roam the wastes of the world—forever alone.

Seven hundred years, four partners including the love of his life, countless descendants come and gone, perhaps a half dozen truly worthwhile enemies, and a daughter that he treasured above all things …

Their brief reigns were his only measure of respite, but they were temporary creatures—temporary kings—and the Demon’s Head had out-lived them all.

There is only his rebellious grandson left.

For now.

* * *

 

_"For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground,_

_And tell sad stories of the death of kings;_

_How some have been deposed; some slain in war,_

_Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;_

_Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;_

_All murder'd: for within the hollow crown_

_That rounds the mortal temples of a king_

_Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits."_

"Richard II" 3.2.155-162


	10. The Sticking-Place

"Be brave, my heart," Talia breathed softly, leaning over her son.  Bound as she was, she could not wrap her arms around him, but Damian threw his arms around her instead.  "Be brave for me."

Her son hid his face against her belly.  It muffled his voice as he promised to obey, and scarcely had the small oath been obtained, their captors ripped the boy from her.

Talia was gratified to see that at least one oaf’s hands already bore evidence of Damian’s small, perfectly even teeth.  Her son had not been apprehended easily.

In fact, Talia considered as she flipped the thin blade in her hand and went to work on her bonds, it was unlikely that these fools had been able to ‘capture’ their prey at all.

Damian had always been a clever, _clever_ little boy.

The mastermind began his usual spiel regarding the League, advancement, immortality, etc.  Talia didn’t waste brain power on the man’s motivations.

Such a bright child deserved a worthy reward for his efforts after all.

By the time she had regained control of the compound, Talia had settled on one.  She soon found Damian in one of the underground cells … all within an hour of being parted from him.

Blissfully unbothered by his dank surroundings, Damian’s meditation was only hampered by the sound of the lock giving way.  Unwilling to give it up entirely, he opened only one eye.

"I believe myself responsible enough for a pet now, Mother."

Talia smoothed his hair as she took a seat across from him and mirrored the pose.  “I thought a tiger would do nicely, darling.”

* * *

 

_“But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we’ll not fail.”_

"Macbeth" 1.7.60-61a


	11. Can the Devil Speak True?

"You saw Gotham at the end," Dick repeated.  "You saw it go wrong."

Bruce nodded wearily.  Recent events being what they were, he took a few more selfish moments to breathe in the night air and ran his hands through cowl-flattened hair.

More and more grey had been showing up as of late.  Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so quick to agree to Dick stepping down once more.

"Bruce," Dick exhaled.  "Gotham’s been wrong … she’s been wrong for a long time."

"Not like this."

Dick was obviously struggling.  Bruce remembered another night, another speech, another retired Robin, and he was sorely tempted to wrap his cape once more around his son’s hunched shoulders.

_"Bruce, I’m lost."_

The gesture probably wouldn’t be much appreciated this time around, Bruce decided.

"This is different," Dick agreed blankly.  "This is worse … this is worse, because of Damian."

Bruce winced at the sudden steel in the younger man’s voice.  Dick hadn’t learned that from him; it was Clark’s influence that gave Dick that kind of strength and goodness.

The cape-gesture would not be appreciated at _all_.

A few feet away, Damian tensed at the mention of his name, but he didn’t turn.  The boy was trying to ignore them, had been trying to ignore them since Bruce’s revelation, but couldn’t quite bring himself to drop it all at his father’s command.

"He was Batman," Bruce murmured for Dick alone.

Damian needed to be kept out of this.  He needed to be a civilian child.  He needed to go to school, to play with his dog, and even to date someday in the far off future.

Damian needed to be safe.  Batman couldn’t give him that.

 _Bruce_ couldn’t give him that.

"He was Batman, and Gotham was in ruins."

"Gotham was never Batman’s fault!" Dick shouted.

Bruce and Damian both flinched.  The younger took a step forward with a worried “Grayson,” but Dick shushed the boy without breaking eye contact, easily reeling his brother in under one arm.

"You’re looking at the future like it’s some kind of failure, Bruce, and it’s not.  It’s not his, and it’s not yours … it was never your fault, Bruce," Dick insisted.

Bruce looked away.

"Gotham isn’t your fault … and it wasn’t mine."

This might be the first time that Dick admitted it to himself.  Bruce hoped that he knew Bruce believed that much whole-heartedly.

"And it won’t be his," Dick’s voice softened.  "Batman doesn’t fail Gotham, Damian.  Batman is too damn stubborn to give up on a doomed city, and that’s what makes him Batman … that’s what will make you Batman.  You’re going to be a great Batman, kid."

Damian turned wordlessly to Bruce.  Dick raised an expectant eyebrow over the boy’s head, and Bruce gave in to the inevitable.

He sighed.  “About the trench coat …”

* * *

 

_"What, can the devil speak true?"_

"Macbeth" 1.3.107


End file.
